


A Crack in the Lense

by AreFriendsDetectives (thefairykingdomofromance)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (the) crack (in the lense), A Work of Genius, Crack, Gay, Gay Sex, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Minor Character Death, Moffats within Moffats, Sex, The johnlock kiss, Wet Dream, gratuitous salted caramel, hot lesbians?, post-tab, terms of endearment, water means emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 09:16:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9065533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefairykingdomofromance/pseuds/AreFriendsDetectives
Summary: With Mary and the baby out of the picture, Sherlock and John can finally express their true feelings for each other. But will their love survive the danger that looms on the horizon? Something's coming.





	

“Sherlock?” John Watson leans over the semi-conscious man on the back seat.  


“Hmm?” Sherlock stirs and blinks, bleary-eyed.  


“Sherlock, are you alright?”  


“Of course I'm alright.” He waves a dismissive and slightly uncoordinated hand. “Why do you keep asking me that?”  


“Because you just passed out again in the back of the car.” Mary's expression is a mixture of concerned and cross, a mother admonishing a much loved but naughty child.  


“I'm fine. Why aren't we at Baker Street yet? What have you two been doing?” He peers at John deductively. “Your razor's blunt.”  


“No. I'm not playing this time. Seriously Sherlock, nod off once more and I'm taking you to hospital.”  


"You're what?” Mary nudges him.  


“Mary's taking you to hospital.”  


“Better.”  


“Yes, Agent AGRA. Much better.”  


“What?” Mary startles.  


“You heard me.” Now Sherlock is lucid and very much in control. “The game is over, 'Mary'. Step away from the car and keep your hands where John Watson can see them.”  
Mary looks to her husband in shock and disbelief.  


“God, John! He's delirious. Do something.” But John's expression has darkened. He's definitely not playing anymore.  


“Do something? Now what should I do, hmm?” His voice is low and dangerous in a way that might be a tiny bit sexy if it wasn't so frightening. “What do I normally do with people like you?” He pulls the Sig from his jacket and aims it with terrifying precision. Mary is smart enough to know this is no joke. She's scared.  


“But you said you hadn't read the memory stick. That you'd forgiven me.” Her voice trembles.  


“A lie for a lie.” John licks his lips, all tight-leashed fury. “Why would I tell a deceitful, murderous villain the truth?”  


“I know I've done bad things. Things I don't deserve to be forgiven for.” She is distraught now, crying. “But you must know I love you, John. I've never lied about that. And I would do anything, absolutely anything to make it up to you.” He points the Sig at her heart, hand steady. Mary covers her rounded belly with her hands, instinctively protective. “But what about the baby?” she sobs.  


“What baby?” John laughs mirthlessly. “I don't see any baby.”  


“Please!” She turns to Sherlock in a last, desperate effort to save her life and that of her child. “You've got to talk to him! Reason with him!”  
But Sherlock ignores her as his eyes meet John's. A silent communication passes between them, a tiny nod of agreement.  


“Laters.” John fires. Two to the chest, one to the head. “Who's the slow one now?” Sherlock crows in triumph as Mary's body crumples, blood, brain, and skull fragments splattered across the tarmac.  


“She totally deserved it.” John sniffs as he replaces the gun.“For being so evil.”  


“Obviously.” Sherlock smiles. “Good shot.” He reaches to shake John's hand, and a frisson of something long suppressed sparks through them as their palms touch. Unconsciously, John twines his small, tanned fingers in Sherlock's long, elegant digits. They gaze, mesmerised, into each other's eyes. Time stops. The world pauses. The universe itself seems to hold its breath, waiting for something. Something it's waited for since the beginning. Since before the beginning. Perhaps for 130 years. The narrow strip of air between them crackles with anticipation, as if the long-held hopes and dreams of thousands are about to be realised. Sherlock takes a breath to speak.  


NEEEEEEAAIOOOOWWWW!!!  


“Fuck!” The thundering drone of a low-flying plane startles them and their hands unclasp, breaking the spell. They'd forgotten they were in an airfield. It's a bit awkward now.  


“John,” Sherlock clears his throat and tries again. “There's something I've wanted to say always and never have. Since you've just brutally murdered your wife and, on balance of probability, your own unborn child, I might as well say it now.” But he doesn't need to say it, because John knows already. Deep down he's always known. Despite the two men never previously expressing any romantic or sexual interest in each other, only a blind, homophobic idiot who doesn't even know how to read people could mistake their true feelings. “I love you.” 

They kiss. Rainbow supernovas explode in the sky. Cascades of pink fireworks light the horizon, and clouds form fluffy love hearts as the Hallelujah chorus fills the air. It is the greatest kiss in the history of humankind. It _makes_ history, altering time and space, and eliminating war, famine and all hatred and oppression from the face of the earth. The press of their lips saves the world. The clumsy, desperate wrestling of their tongues sets humanity free. It really is a top snog. Breathless, John reluctantly pulls away.  


“God you're amazing,” he pants. “I feel high just kissing you.”  


“No, that's probably the cocaine I rubbed into my gums.” He's met with a disapproving glare, but it melts under the force of The Face. Sherlock is all pout and puppy-dog eyes. Slightly dilated puppy-dog eyes. But whether from the intoxicating chemistry between them or a near-fatal overdose, John can't tell. Either way it's adorable.  


“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, will you marry me?”  


“On one condition.” He runs a finger tenderly over John's jaw.  


“Anything.”  


“Change your razor. I prefer my doctors clean-shaven.”

John laughs, and in the ebb of adrenaline his laughter turns to tears. Tears of joy and relief and tears of regret that it has taken them so long to reach this point. Liberated from the tyranny of an evil wife and overwhelmed by the pent-up emotion of his unspoken love, John Watson weeps as no middle aged British man made stoic by warfare and the rigours of a medical career has wept before. Sherlock's lip quivers in sympathy. A single, crystalline tear sparkles down his cheek before his face crumples like a milk carton and he too gives in to the tide of feelings. They hold each other, bodies heaving together in convulsions of uninhibited emotion. They have waited so long. They have been through so much. They feel a sudden, insistent stirring in their trousers. Their tears dry, replaced by the twinkle of unstoppable, animalistic lust. They grapple like men possessed.  


“So...what's the best way to do this?” John pulls the Belstaff from Sherlock's shoulders and throws it aside.  


“You have to be on top. Otherwise it's wrong.” He tears open John's shirt.  


“Why is it wrong?” John removes Sherlock's pants and rubs their dicks together.  


“I don't know. It just is.” They kiss once more before John slams him face down over the back of the car and rams his disproportionately large cock into Sherlock's unprepared virgin arse. They moan in ecstasy. Waves of seismic pleasure crash over them, their bodies united in blissful motion as flesh smacks against flesh. Their deep and unbreakable affection fuels their sweaty exertion to transcendent heights until it's the greatest act of sexual intercourse that has ever been. Wild and uninhibited, they cry out to each other like men drowning in a sea of their own passion.  


“Darling!”  


“Sweetheart!”  


“Snugglepuppy!”  


“Fuck me, Fluffy Bunnykins!” 

John grips Sherlock's hips tighter and pistons fast and hard, driving them both to the precipice of no return. They climax together and collapse boneless and gasping, their heroic and timeless love consummated at last. Beside them, Evil Mary's blood runs on the tarmac, spelling out a four-letter acronym in crimson rivulets. It's beautiful.  


“I'm now carrying your child.” Sherlock announces matter-of-factly. “Your real child.”  


“How is that even possible?” John worries vaguely about STIs.  


“The power of love, John. Love conquers all. Even plausibility.” They ejaculate simultaneously a dozen times more. 

A taxi pulls up. Too late, Molly Hooper has come to confess her sweet, oddly persistent love for Sherlock Holmes. Stepping from the cab, her hands fly to her tiny mouth in shock at both the carnage and the olympian sexual feats before her. Small and mouse-like, yet plucky and competent, she weeps brave, cherry-cardiganed tears for the man who disparaged her and exploited her unrequited crush so many times. She consoles herself with the thought that at least she was able to give him _a_ head, if not actual head, and that Sherlock will be happy now with John. Because Molly is a nice person. Sherlock and John take a moment from their acrobatic fornications to gloat.  


“Christ what an idiot!”  


“Obviously.” They laugh and laugh. 

The outpouring of tears, blood, and other unfortunate bodily fluids begins to pool together, each drop multiplying exponentially until salty liquid covers the tarmac. The flood grows with supernatural speed, stretching as far as the eye can see and growing deeper by the second. On the horizon, a tidal wave looms, massive and terrifying. Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson continue their epic love-making, bodies grinding obliviously in the tide, their ecstatic groans deafening them to the roar of their impending destruction. 

“Mother of god.” A short distance away, a stocky, curly-haired man with a Scottish accent stands frozen in fascinated horror. “What have I done?”  


“It's alright Steven.” Mycroft Holmes rests a hand on his shoulder, a look of sorrowful regret etched across his patrician features. “This is equally my fault. I should have known,” he sighs deeply. “But in all fairness, you started it.” His expression changes, arch and teasing. He extracts a small object from his waistcoat pocket and waves it temptingly in his colleague's face. “Chocolate?” Defeated, Steven Moffat takes the salted caramel and chews absently, his eyes fixed on the apocalyptic deluge of his own creations' bodily excretions. Apart from paralytic fear, he feels a mixture of indignation and embarrassment, as if he's being unfairly punished but can't help feeling mortified all the same. It's uncomfortably similar to the time his wife found his copy of Lesbian Spank Inferno. 

The wave engulfs him with a deafening roar like the great cry of angry and disappointed fans. It pulls him under and sends him tumbling over and over in its liquid fury. He scrambles to the surface, gasping for air. Above him, umbrella aloft and sailing Mary Poppins-like over the foam, Mark/Mycroft waves before vanishing smugly into the clouds.  


“Hell mend you, Gatiss!” Moffat curses before he goes under again, dragged onward, helplessly and inexorably to his doom. The torrent, swollen by the expectations of 20 million viewers, plunges into a tremendous abyss, from which the spray rolls up like the smoke from burning first drafts. Down, down into the seething cauldron he falls, where no deus ex machina can reach him. He screams.

He jolts awake in his bed, sweating and breathless. A blonde, middle-aged woman sits next to him, bespectacled and poring over printed sheets of paper.  


“Sorry, love. Just going over the schedule for tomorrow. Did I wake you?”  


“No.” he gulps. “God, I think I was having some kind of anxiety dream.”  


“You don't have anxiety dreams, dear. That's my job.” She turns a page and scans it. “You're probably over-caffeinated. Tell Mark to stop feeding you chocolate.” Moffat frowns into the middle distance, mourning the loss of salted caramel. If only such a thing existed outside of dreams. He sighs. Sue Vertue looks up from her reading, peering at him in concern.  


“Are you sure you're alright? It's not indigestion again?”  


“No, I'm fine. Just badly in need of a break. A nice holiday.” He blinks. “Somewhere dry.”  


“I think we'll all need a long break after this one. It's been exhausting. Some of your best work, though. You should be very proud.”  


“You have to say that. You're married to me."  


“Everyone thinks so.”  


“I wonder what new and imaginative forms of hate mail the 'fans' will devise for us this time.”  


“I'll keep a list, shall I?”  


“Mark Gatiss has a file.”  


“You don't write it for them and you can't please everybody,” she recites like a schoolgirl repeating her multiplication tables.  


“Hmm.” He's ready to settle into the cosy grumpiness he knows his wife secretly finds endearing when a sound catches his attention. “What's that noise?”  


“Ugh. That bloody tap in the bathroom's running again. It won't turn off.”  


“The tap?” Of course. The sound of running water. The tidal wave. Reality bleeding into dreams. His mind spins, conjuring worlds within worlds.  


“Yes. Go and take the plug out of the sink or we'll wake up floating. I'll send for a plumber in the morning.” 

But Moffat is lost in Mobius loops of meta-narrative possibilities. Plots, characters. Perhaps he could write a TV show about a genius white guy who dreams about writing a TV show about a genius white guy who, in a bizarre twist, is actually the one writing the TV show. Genius! And he'd be so brilliant and amazing that all the women want to sleep with him. Even the lesbians. Because representation is important. But only hot lesbians.  


“Mmm...lesbians.”  


“What?” She throws him a look that could freeze a Dalek in its tracks.  


“Nothing,” he squeaks, slipping out of bed and scuttling towards the bathroom. Halfway he freezes, caught mid-stride and seized by a sudden realisation. It's accompanied by a feeling of failure and humiliation he usually associates with attempts to reverse park: the familiar and pervasive sense of being rubbish at pretty much everything. He calls to his wife, a plaintive edge to his Scottish burr. 

“Sue?”  


“What is it?”  


“Do people _really_ hate my Dr Who that much?”

**Author's Note:**

> Written before season 4 as an exercise in overcoming writer's block. Little did I know! 
> 
> Edited for appalling formatting.


End file.
